


Sutton Place

by JinkyO



Series: Take My Love In Really Small Doses [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: CMNM, Clothing Kink, Cock Worship, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Foreskin Play, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Romance, Uncircumcised Penis, Voice Kink, soft cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:34:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5026846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinkyO/pseuds/JinkyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home was a euphemism for "the place where Finch slept".  Before the nature of their relationship mutated into something more personal, John had logged countless hours trying to discover where Finch slept. This well heeled apartment, devoid of any traces of John, seemed to fit the bill.</p><p>A prequel to "Little By Little".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John came to strapped to a metal chair in Garcetti's dim warehouse basement. He glanced over at the second chair; Jeremy Walker, the young accountant under his protection, lay slumped but still breathing.The two goons John had taken down earlier were still laid out on the concrete floor. That left three more.

Four –The big man who joined the party late and caught John by surprise.

“ _Mr. Reese? Where are you?”_

“A little tied up at the moment, Finch,” he murmured as he tested the arm restraints.

“Looks like sleeping beauty finally woke up,” the big man said, standing to loom over him. “You can make this easy on all of us. Just tell me where the books are and we kill you quick. That's fair, don't you think?”

“Depends on how you look at it.” John winced at the sharp jaw pain.

“The longer you drag this out, the worse it's gonna' be.” The big man pulled his gun from his waistband, and pressed it to John's forehead. “So again, where are the account books?”

“ _I suppose this is one of your improvisations? Since you went in without Detective Carter, I took the liberty of sending her to you. Buy yourself some time.”_

The big man flicked off the safety. “Bad time to clam up, Suit.”

“Listen...” John flashed a disarming smile up at Garcetti's enforcer. “You've already got the accountant. I'm guessing he gave you the same story he told me? He deleted the files. Well, here's the thing – I've got a friend, good with computers. I know what's in Garcetti's books. And so will the New York Journal if I don'treport in on time.”

John leaned back in the chair. He tilted his head slightly and sized up the enforcer. “So let's make a deal. You keep the accountant, I give you Garcetti's black money ledger, and I walk out of here alive?”

The big man's eyes narrowed. The pressure of the gun barrel jammed into John's forehead eased. “Who are you working for, Suit?”

“I'm just a concerned citizen trying to make it home for dinner tonight.”

“ _Mr. Reese, I've just sent the ledger data to your phone.”_

“You keep talking, Suit, but I ain't heard nothing worthwhile yet.” The enforcer steadied the gun again, tapping the cold metal to John's skull with each question. “Who do you work for? How do I know you're not fucking with me?”

“You've got my phone. The ledger is on it.”

“ _Detective Carter and her back-up are entering the warehouse now. Keep stalling.”_

“Jimmy.” The big man jerked his head towards the thug closest to John's confiscated guns and phone. The other two men, guns trained, more or less, on John, watched curiously as Jimmy puzzled over the lock screen.

“Pass code?”

“6759.”

The big man divided his attention between John and the mankeying in the code, his fingers twitching on the trigger. The two men near the door both took a step closer.

“Open the email program,” John said softly, his eyes on Jimmy. A sound outside the basement door caught his attention: footsteps on the concrete steps –five, six officers maybe. John relaxed his arms and repositioned his feet. “Everything I have on Garcetti is in there.”

“Jimmy?”

“I don't know, it's all... it's accounts and stuff, but I don't know what it means,” the phone man stammered as he thumbed through the screens. “Maybe we should send it to the boss?”

“Fuckin' hell, Jimmy.” The big man turned to look and the gun barrel drifted slightly. Just enough.

John ducked his head and pushed forward, twisting, swinging the chair with him. The metal legs cracked against the big man's elbow as John spun out of the line of fire and threw himself atop Walker. They both hit the hard concrete just as the basement door crashed open.

“NYPD! Guns down, now!”

Joss to the rescue. John grabbed Walker, shielding him with his body as he led the awkward crab crawl to the safety of the dividing brick wall.

“ _Mr. Reese?”_

“I'm clear, Finch. Carter's here.”

“ _Oh, thank goodness. Detective Fusco has Garcetti and is taking him down to the 8 th now. Mr. Walker has a ticket waiting at JFK for the 8:30 flight to Halifax. Get him on that plane.”_

“Sure thing,” John said, scrambling to his feet, his arms still bound to the heavy metal chair. “I just need to cut ties here first.” The noise was dying down on the other side of the wall. The cops were busy corralling Garcetti's men together so he waited. Any minute now.

“John?” Carter called, turning the corner to his hiding spot. She holstered her gun as she approached, shaking her head as she took in the sight of him trussed to the chair. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I appreciate the back up.”

“You know what I'd appreciate?” She gestured for him to turn so that she could cut him free. “Some help with the paper work that's gonna' come out of this mess.”

He pushed his stained shirt cuff back and rubbed a hand over his bruised wrist. “I'll see what I can do. Lionel's always got free time. I'm sure I can talk him into helping.”

“You want to tell me what's really going on here?” she asked as she cut Walker loose. “I got a call from your friend but he was a little light on the details.”

John flashed a smile and collected his groggy number. “I'm sure the fellows in the next room will fill you in once you get them down to the station.”

“John...”

“Sorry, Carter,” John said, slipping an arm under Walker before turning for the second exit. “Got a plane to catch.”

 

***

 

The plan was for Walker to stay put in Nova Scotia until Garcetti's trial concluded. The gangster's account books would provide enough evidence for any jury to convict. After seeing the accountant off safely, and feeling rather pleased with the day's work, John checked in.

“I'm driving back now, Finch. Where are you?”

“Tidying up a few loose ends before I go home,” Harold answered in a terse voice.

“Oh,” John said, his face falling.

“I'll send you the address, Mr. Reese.”

The phone in his pocket vibrated and John smiled. “I'll meet you there.”

Home was a euphemism for _the place where Finch slept_. Before the nature of their relationship mutated into something more personal, John had logged countless hours trying to discover where Finch slept. It wasn't until after that first time in the converted room behind Social Sciences and Folklore, glazed in hand lotion and semen, that John realized “home” was a flexible term. Home was the library, the numbers, Finch's voice in his ear. Tonight, home was Sutton Place.

John ditched the stolen car a few blocks away, and, turning towards the span of the Queensboro Bridge, walked the rest. The foot traffic through the staid little enclave along the East River was light, little old ladies and their tiny leashed dogs, leaving John unusually aware of his tattered state. Garcetti's goons had landed more than a few good shots. He slowed his steps as he counted down the numbered door awnings, finally coming to a stop outside of Finch's building. John had the passing thought that he should have stopped to clean up first.

Hindsight was useless. He stepped under the green awning and tipped his head at the doorman. “Penthouse,” he said and the doorman nodded in return, as if expecting him, before turning aside to open the heavy door. Inside, the concierge looked up from his desk then quickly stood.

“Mr. Manzione,” the concierge said, leading them past the desk to the elevator, “this way. Just call down to the desk when you're ready to have your suit picked up.”

John nodded curtly as he stepped into the burnished brass elevator car while the concierge pressed the floor code.

So Finch had reviewed the video, he thought as the elevator ascended. Brushing a spot of grime off his jacket, John used the polished doors to run a rough hand over his hair and straighten his suit. 22 floors later, the elevator discharged him out into a short hallway opposite an incongruously ornate pair of heavy wooden carriage house doors.

Brows furrowed, he ran his eyes over the woodwork, then the flat gray walls and ceiling. As he looked for the security cameras one of the heavy doors creaked and opened outward.

“You're a mess, Mr. Reese,” Finch said, lips pursed, arms crossed, indomitable in his immaculate dark muted blue and periwinkle three-piece suit.

“I had a rough afternoon,” John answered, brushing against his partner as he swept into the apartment, eyes scanning the room.

“Unnecessarily so,” Harold muttered, locking the door. “I thought we were operating from a set plan?”

“Plans change.” John circled the living room, taking in the elegant wood furnishings while pulling off his jacket. “For instance, I didn't plan on Garcetti's men getting to Walker before me,” he said, draping the jacket over a curved backed sofa.

“So you went after him alone?”

“I knew you had my back,” John answered, an easy smile on his lips as he fingered open his shirt buttons.

“Mr. Reese, we've discussed this before. There is a difference between necessary risks and reckless bravado. What if something had happened to you?”

John stilled his hand, his half open shirt revealing his stomach. Mouth tight, he strode across the carpeted room and closed in on Finch. “You forget,” he whispered against Harold's cheek, “ _this_ is what I do, and I happen to be very good at it.”

Finch drew himself up to meet John's narrowed eyes. “I appreciate that, Mr. Reese,” he said, his words measured, his hands taking over for John's in undoing the last of the delicate buttons, “but you forget that I happen to be inordinately fond of you and I would prefer to have you home and intact at the end of each day.”

“No,” John rasped. He brought his hands up to cover Harold's, holding tight. “I can't promise that, Finch. I can't do the job if I'm...”

“ _I_ can't do the job without you,” Finch cut in. “I trust your judgment in the field. And, as you so humbly noted, you are exceptionally good at this work.” He eased their hands up slightly to rest over John's bare chest. “All I ask is that you mitigate the danger when and where possible.” Finch spanned his hands under the open shirt. “The Kevlar, for example.” He stepped into the tight space separating them and slid his hands down over John's skin, pausing over his bruised ribs. “Are you hurt?”

“Not much,” John murmured, looping his arms around Harold and resting his chin on Harold's shoulder, the well tailored seam of Finch's jacket warm against his skin.

“Undress. Get showered and I'll take a look.”

Wordlessly, John pressed a soft kiss to Harold's neck before disentangling himself. He shed his shirt, shoes and trousers, piling the lot on the sofa with his jacket.

Unlike many of the other bolt holes, the Sutton Place apartment felt like Finch. Restrained and luxurious furnishings, thick, comfortable padding and pillows, carved wood accents, deep pile carpeting, and opulently framed art hanging on the walls. John's eyes lingered on the sumptuously made bed with its solid headboard as he passed through Finch's bedroom.

Despite Finch's proclamation of inordinate fondness, they had yet to actually consummate their relationship. Not so dry humping, oddly old fashioned and unexpectedly satisfying John had come to discover, hand jobs, and most recently, blow jobs. John brushed a hand over his boxers as the vivid memory of the taste and feel of Finch against his lips came to mind.

John stepped into the master bathroom and peeled out of the boxers and his socks. Naked, he stepped into the glass enclosed, granite tiled shower and turned the water on. Multiple strong, and perfectly placed, jets of warm water hit his body. John braced his hand against the railing, dropping his head so that the two jets behind him pelted his sore back, and sighed.

No actual intercourse yet, but the perks of sleeping with the boss more than made up for it.

The truth was, he had been showing off today. For Finch, his audience of one. Going after Jeremy Walker hadn't been reckless. It was one of the least desirable options, but the margin of success was still high enough to make it a viable option. Going in without a vest _had_ been stupid. He'd left the library that morning with the intent to follow the number, get close to him, and convince Walker that he was there to help and that the best help he could offer was a trip out of the country while John and his 'associates' took care of Garcetti. All of that went out the window when Garcetti's crew snatched Walker off the street, in broad daylight.

He adjusted the water a shade hotter and shifted under the shower heads, groaning as the spray pounded against his neck, back and thighs. He could imagine Finch under this shower,unknotting his tight and tired muscles after a long day in front of his computers. John rolled his neck and let the spray massage his scalp.

A bottle of shower gel sat in a corner of the tiled shower seat, along with Finch's shampoo and conditioner. He took a quick sniff of the clean and spicy soap before squeezing a fat dollop into his palm and lathering himself. He washed away the grime of Garcetti's warehouse, soothed soapy hands over his arms and chest, water plastering his dark hair to his skin as he moved lower.

What if the odds had not been in his favor, he wondered, curving his hand over his cock. Finch had the ability to work minor miracles in keeping John alive and it went beyond the practicalities of the work. Over the course of their partnership, Harold had trained John in the delicate operations of saving lives. Who knew if Harold's next hired muscle would be able to perform to the same, exacting, degree?

John's face twisted into a harsh grimace at the idea of someone else taking his place at Finch's side.

Going in without his vest had been inexcusably stupid.

The shower sluiced down his back but couldn't cut through the sudden chill. John pulled his hand away from his still soft cock and stepped forward to rinse clean. Satisfied, he shut off the shower and climbed out. A stack of towels sat on the wide granite vanity and he dried himself briskly before knotting a towel around his hip and walking back to the bedroom.

For all of his unpredictability, John had found Finch's pattern in the safe houses. Some were obviously chosen for their comfort, billionaire investments that would grow in value. Others had apparently been chosen for convenience, near the library or near a train station. And occasionally, John found himself bedding down in one of the outer boroughs, apartments and neat houses with tidy little lawns, well appointed libraries, and quiet. All of the safe houses boasted state-of-the-art security and all of the houses so far, had been stocked with a waiting spare black suit and polished shoes for John.

Toes dug into the soft carpet, John opened the dresser drawers looking for his clean clothes and came up empty. The closet was equally barren. Fingering his damp hair back, John walked to the living room where he found Finch in front of his laptop.

“Do you have someone delivering a fresh suit?” John asked, leaning over the back of Finch's chair.

“Not at the moment, no,” Harold answered, his eyes on the screen as he typed. “I've sent yours out for cleaning. It should be back in the next hour or so. In the meantime I'm following Mr. Walker. His flight arrived without incident and he's currently checked into his hotel.”

“Oh,” John said, pushing up to stand. “And Garcetti?”

“Denied bail,” he murmured. “John? Would you mind starting a cup of tea for me? You should find everything you need in the kitchen.” His fingers skimmed over the keyboard as he pulled up Walker's hotel camera feeds. “Did you eat between the airport and here?”

John shook his head slowly, coming from behind the chair to stand in front of him. “No, I came straight over.”

“Then dinner too if you're hungry,” Harold said, distracted by the work in front of him. “There should be something in the freezer. Whatever you decide to cook is fine.”

“So now I'm your naked gourmet?” John teased, angling for a reaction.

Harold looked up from the laptop and traced his eyes over John. “Not entirely,” he said, quirking his lips after a second of consideration. “The towel rather ruins the effect.”

John's eyebrows shot up. He lowered his hands and untied the towel.

Finch continued to work.

John tossed the soft cotton down over the laptop and turned for the kitchen. Behind him, the sound of Finch's typing stopped.

It didn't take long to find the electric tea kettle and start the water. John rummaged through the cabinets and found a box of bagged tea, Harold's pain meds, dish and silverware, dry pasta, canned sauce, and a serviceable collection of spices. He wasn't particularly hungry at the moment, but should Finch decide that they were staying in for the night, spaghetti would tide them over.

The kettle whistled. John prepared Finch's tea in a delicate china cup set atop a matching saucer. He loaded this, along with the medication, and a glass of water for himself, onto a silver serving tray and marched back into the living room.

This time Finch looked up, a tiny smile shadowing his lips as John served the tea with flourish. “As much as I'm enjoying the look, I will order a back-up wardrobe for you for next time.”

John took his water and settled his lanky, naked body in the chair opposite Harold. “Don't use this place often?”

“Hmm,” Harold said, looking over the rim of the cup as he sipped his tea. “This is one of my favorites.”

John turned that over in his head. Finch had never before professed a 'particular fondness' for any of the other safe houses. It was possible that, before that afternoon in the library over two weeks ago, when they'd taken the first steps together,  _this_ was the place where Finch slept.

This was the place that Finch had kept for himself.

“What's the latest on our Mr. Walker,” John asked, suddenly annoyed.

“He appears to be settled in for the night. I took the precaution of creating a direct link between his hotel security and the Halifax Regional Police. In the unlikely event that Garcetti's reach extends this far north, Mr. Walker will be well looked after.” Harold set his cup down. “And you?”

“A few scrapes, a few bruises. Nothing serious.”

“Well, we've got some time before your suit is mended and cleaned. Perhaps...”

John nodded immediately, leaning forward to set his glass down next to Harold's cup. They both rose. Harold led the way back to the bedroom. 

“Lie down, Mr. Reese,” Harold said as he patted the top of the comforter on his way past the bed to a well cushioned wingback chair set near the foot. “Get comfortable.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Comfortable. That's how John described the thing he shared with Finch. It had been an inevitability that he would bed his partner. The rules of engagement no one ever trained for or talked about. Ever since he'd accepted Finch's job offer and reacquainted himself with the day-to-day danger (and the attendant thrill), John's new life had settled into the routine of life-death-Finch-life; a routine that fulfilled his basic needs.

With the essentials met, his interest then turned to Finch, the strange, brilliant do-gooder with his big words and fancy clothes. Their team had expanded to include Carter and Fusco, but most of the time John worked with Finch. Side by side in the library or with Finch's voice in his ear out in the field, John had grown comfortable with the casual intimacy of their relationship. An intimacy actively stoked and fanned on both ends: shared meals outside of the library confines, elliptical conversations that bordered on personal.

Tentative steps that had inevitably led to scenes like this, John walking naked through Finch's lavish living room and into the strange and brilliant man's bed.

John's cock sparked to life as he dropped down onto the firm mattress and settled himself on his back. Long legs splayed wide, he watched curiouslyas Finch paused at the end of the bed to pull his silk pocket square out and lay it on the blanket near John's leg.

“There are less exotic ways we can do this,” John said, scratching his stomach lightly.

“I would say that holds true for many things, Mr. Reese.” Harold moved behind the chair and pushed it the few inches closer to the bed. “But you've piqued my curiosity. What exotic intrigues do you imagine I have in store for you today?”

“I'd have a better chance at guessing what you _don't_ have in mind.”

Harold tipped his head back, his eyes widening a trifle behind his glasses. He took a quick breath and nodded. “Oh.”

John regretted his cutting words. Getting it up wasn't a problem on most days. Barring the occasional setback from his medication, Finch, hard and rarin' to go, was a sight to behold. Still, the man was no rough and tumble barrack mate. He had obvious physical limitations that made the idea of him taking John, deep and rough, a near impossibility.

“It doesn't have to be that complicated,” John blurted anyway. Limitations or not, sex didn't need to be arranged. If Finch wanted him all he had to do was ask.

“Anything worth doing right has an inherent level of complication,” Harold said, taking a moment to flick open a second bottom button of his waistcoat before he sat.

“It's just sex.”

Harold settled his arms over the rests, his expressive eyes narrowing as he regarded John. “If that's the case, then you certainly needn't wait for me.”

“I didn't mean it like that,” John said, pushing up on his elbows.

“Down.”

“Har—”

“And quiet for a moment,” Harold said firmly.

John went still at Finch's clipped command and swallowed his words. Slowly, he lowered himself back down.

Harold leaned forward and cupped his hands over John's feet. “Come closer.”

John dug his heels in and pushed himself as close as possible, butterflying his knees outward, his toes dangling precariously over the mattress.

Harold nodded in approval. He swept his thumbs from the bridges of John's feet to his ankles where he caught hold and nudged his feet apart. John obliged by letting his knees fall open, earning himself another nod. “So limber,” Harold murmured.

John strained forward to catch the soft words. He shuddered at the light rake of nails along his inner calves and the sight of Finch, framed starched and cosseted between his legs, brushing his hands up to John's knees.

“It has never been my intent to neglect your needs,” Harold said.

“You don't,” John choked out.

“But you want more than I've given you so far?” Harold asked, fingers feathering against his inner thighs, his silver cuff-links catching the light as he moved up John's thighs.

“No.”

“No?” Harold repeated with a skeptical quirk of his lips. He leaned down against the bed and curved one hand loosely around John's cock, the other slipping down under his balls. “Perhaps I've overlooked the consequences of depriving you?” he said, the words supple on his lips. “Is that why you insist on putting yourself in the direct line of danger? Because I'm not satisfying your needs in bed?”

John rooting himself to the bed as Finch closed his hand around him. His cool fingers hovered just over his heated skin, fingertips whispering over his shaft as Finch floated his hand down. John reached out and caught Finch just above his wrist. He met Finch's eyes, bright blue and wide beneath the lenses, and John slowly shook his head. No.

“Would you rather I...”

There was a slight pause, a hitch in Finch's voice. John dropped his eyes to Finch's mouth, stomach tense, his face hot with anticipation.

“...fuck you?" Finch clipped off each word as he curled his pinky at the base of his cock. "Is that what you need, Mr. Reese?” 

John nearly spilled. He could almost see the spurt of hot slick ruining Finch's perfectly buttoned cuffs and the knotted silk tie.

Harold loosened his hand, relieving the mounting pressure. “So, that's it.”

“I'm fine with whatever you give me, Finch,” John panted, opening his knees wide. “I'm not complaining.”

“But you were.” Harold thumbed the tip of John's cock, then down along the coronal ridge.“And with good reason, I suppose,” he continued, stroking loosely over John's length. “Tell me, Mr. Reese, is it something you think about often when we're together like this?”

“Every time,” John answered in a ragged voice. Rocking his hips slowly, he dropped his upper body to the mattress. “I've never had anyone wait so long to seal the deal.”

“I see.” Harold said, drawing the words out as he brushed his fingertips over John's balls. “I can only imagine your frustration.”

Finch sank his head between John's legs, revealing the light brown patch of thinning hair at his crown and the perfectly matched seams of the jacket. A fond warmth overtook John and without asking, he lifted his hand to brush over the taut line of fabric and up through Harold's fine hair. He could live with the frustrations if this was his reward. He could be happy with this.

“I've always preferred to take my time and learn as much as possible about a subject before I commit,” Harold said, his breath warm and incredibly close to John's skin. He was using both of his hands on John's balls, gently stroking them through his fingers, milking them in time to John's fingers through his hair.

Head back, eyes closed, John's thigh's tensed at the wet and rough tongue at the base of his balls. Finch traced a hot trail over their swell, leaving a delicious burn against John's heated skin and then, Finch's sharp intake of air followed by a much slower, wetter intake of John's balls into his mouth.

John's throaty groan rolled through the sumptuous bedroom as Finch ran his tongue over his sack. He dropped his head back to the bed. His legs strained in the stretch to open up for Finch's slow suckle. He could be so happy.

“That, for example,” Harold said, drawing back ever so slightly, John's balls hanging heavy and wet before him. “You are amazingly responsive and had I rushed in, it would have taken me much longer to discover that particular spot.”

Harold shifted between John's legs, his wool suit brushing against his warm, open thighs. “Right here,” he said, ghosting his fingertip along John's perineal raphe to tap once at his frenulum. “This is usually the most sensitive part of the male anatomy. But you, Mr. Reese,” Harold pressed a soft kiss to the underside of John's cock, “your sensitive spots are much lower.” He curved his fingers and thumb midway along John's shaft, massaging the delicate skin and nerves in slow, unerring strokes. Pressing two fingers against John's perineum, he eased his way through the sweat damp short hairs down and back to John's hole.

John drew in a sharp breath. Years of training had conditioned him to keep cool under pressure. He'd barely broken a sweat facing down Garcetti's thugs earlier in the day. But as Finch circled his fingers over his body, tracing a methodical path that led back to the thin skin under his balls and back again, John quaked. “I don't like the teasing, Finch,” he growled, bucking his hips off the sheets.

“Tease implies that I might be leading you on,” Harold said, pressing the fleshy tip of his finger against the breach. “Taunting you with no intention of finishing the job.” There was a slight pause as he pulled his finger away for a second then fitted it in place again, this time much wetter. “I trust you know me well enough to know that I would never tease you under circumstances like these, Mr. Reese. Not when you so obviously need relief,” he said, his tone serious as he pressed his slick finger in past the tight rings. 

Sealing John with his finger, his other hand still snug over his shaft, Harold pulled his eyes away from the sight of John's wide spread body and looked up to catch his eyes. “Can you reach that top drawer, Mr. Reese?”

John threw his arm across to pull the nightstand open and fingered inside the wooden drawer until he hit the plastic. Lube. Used. He tried to read the smudged label as he handed the nearly empty bottle down to Harold. Groaning in frustration when Harold broke their close contact, John swept his hand over his chest to catch a hard nipple between his fingers.

“Look at you, so eager,” Harold said as he settled back into his chair. He snapped the lube open and squeezed a measure into his palm. “It's a good look on you.”

“Imagine what you inside of me would look like,” John rasped. 

"Oh, I have, Mr. Reese. Much like you, I would assume." Harold tossed the bottle aside on the bed and leaned forward. His jacket fell open to expose the muted waistcoat beneath. “I have some ideas, of course. You on your back, like this,” he said casually, as if he were relaying his lunch order. He rubbed his hands briskly to warm the lube for a moment before he reached out and closed his slick hand over John's hard cock.

“I want to see you spread out for me, like you are now. Your body straining in anticipation.” Harold eased his other hand underneath John's upturned ass and sank a finger into his relaxed body while circling his thumb just behind his heavy balls. “I want to hear that little cry you make in the back of your throat and know it's just for me,” Harold said, worming his crooked finger deeper. “That's what I want, Mr. Reese, but what about you? What would you like?”

“Anything,” John said, biting back his startled groan. Anything could be enough if it came from Finch. “Everything.”

“Use your words, Mr. Reese. Everything, what? What would you like?” Harold repeated, his flushed cheeks belying his suit and tied calm as he jerked John with precision.

“I want you inside me,” John gasped as he rocked his hips up into Finch's hand. Finch tipped his head slightly and smiled at him  and it was stunning. “I want you to fuck me, hard and deep,” John hurried on, his eyes drifting from Finch's slightly parted lips down to the sweet torture of his expert fingers squeezing and sliding. “I want to watch you do it.”

“How hard?” Harold asked and slowed his stroke, long and lazy down John's length. “You're no spring chicken, Mr. Reese.”

“You don't think I can handle you?” John asked incredulously.

“You've never had me,” Harold answered, tapping his finger against John's prostate with a heavy and deliberate thump-thump-thump that echoed his heartbeat.

A sharp frisson of want seared through John at the low challenge and intimate touch. What had previously been a vague, formless idea of Finch taking him now assumed shape. Finch would take him by surprise, John was sure of that. It would be in Finch's little room behind Social Sciences and Folklore, some quiet morning when the Machine gave them the day off. Sure, steady hands and Finch's sharp tongue put to good use -and then he _would_ have him. 

“Fuck,” John huffed. Inside, Finch was circling his finger slowly over John's prostate. A motion echoed by his thumb sweeping over John's swollen tip for a moment before stroking down again.

Finch had learned well. He handled John with the same ease and attention he lavished over his intricate computer codes. Action – a slight twist of his wrist. Reaction -John biting down on his lip, long toes curling. Like a master at work, Finch played the sensitive nerves and over-stimulated skin. With fat droplets of pre-come easing his way, he led John, trembling and gasping, towards release.

“Are you ready, Mr. Reese?”

“Yes,” John cried out, pinching his abused nipple under the triple onslaught of Finch's fingers against his cock, his sack, inside of him.

“Then let me see you,” Harold said and cinched his fingers for a moment at the base of his cock. “Spill for me, John. Be as loud as you like.”

John groaned. Finch had him pegged. Years in the military had drilled a stealthy reserve in all things. He'd learned to jerk it in under three minutes. Learned that an illicit tryst in the latrine, or under the cover of night, could be accomplished in five. Learned that women, in and out of uniform, were less interested in making him last than they were in their own pleasure – and he knew how to pleasure them. But Finch, patient, exacting, and precise in his fancy suits and hundred dollar vocabulary – Finch liked to hear him.

The slow internal massage picked up pace as Harold took to the tapping again, adding a delicious pressure to the back of John's cock while his fist flew fluidly over the shaft. It was almost unbearable. Up and up.

“Come for me, John,” he repeated, his voice catching as he leaned in close between John's wide open thighs.

John pushed up on his elbows, jacking his cock through Finch's hand then grinding down against his fingers. He had no more words, just the high pitched garble of mangled curses and the repeated grunt of “Yes. Yes. Yesssss...” He came and he came, thick and messy over Finch's cuff and cuff-link. His cock pulsed in Finch's sure hand and his come sputtered and spilled between them.

Flopping back to the bed, John rode it out. The almost would become actually unbearable in a few minutes but for the moment his world was awash in hot release and Finch's voice in his ear.

“That's it, John. Absolutely exquisite.”

John felt Finch's hands sliding over him, smoothing his come into his skin. He felt the slow drag of Finch's tongue against him and the firm dig of his fingers into his thighs. John moved his hands down to catch Finch's forearms, grounding himself to the warm wool as he floated back to reality.

Through lidded eyes, he watched Finch recline back into his chair, the silk pocket square in hand. “What are you doing?”

“Pre-treating, Mr. Reese.”

John stretched his legs down over the foot of the bed and rolled himself up to sit. Across from him, Harold dabbed the silk over his cuff-link for a bit before twisting it free to lie on the bed.

“Do you have a separate sex stain dry-cleaner?” John asked, lifting his foot to rest briefly on Finch's knee before sliding up to his thigh.

“Really, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, parting his legs slightly as he folded the pocket square and moved up to the jacket cuff. “It's a simple protein stain. There's no need to go into detail beyond that, my cleaners are professionals after all.”

“You sound pretty knowledgeable, Finch,” John said, dragging a toe along the inseam. “I might be jealous.”

“I've been wearing good suits for a while now, Mr. Reese. Care and upkeep are things you pick up along the way.”

John nudged his toes along the buttoned fly front and Harold shooed him away. “Not now.”

Determined, John returned his foot to Harold's lap, his toes curving over the soft warmth beneath the wool. “You're taking the suit in anyway,” he said, massaging the ball of his foot against Harold's cock.

“A protein stain on my sleeve is fairly innocuous,” Harold said, gently cupping his hand over John's ankle and moving him away. “Things get more complicated if I have to account for the pants as well.

“I'll be careful.”

“I'm fine, Mr. Reese. Truly.”

“You're still dressed.”

“I intend to get back to work. When your suit is delivered I expect you to as well.”

“We haven't gotten a new number,” John said, bypassing Harold's crotch this time to slide his foot under Harold's vest.

“We might.”

“I won't spill a drop.”

“John,” Harold said, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice, “I've been working all day. I'm done, I've done all that I'm physically capable of today.”

“Then let me do the work.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

John swung back and grabbed a thick pillow from the headboard. Maybe he should have saved all his showing off for the bedroom. Truth was, he planned to be on his knees for a while and the concrete basement, earlier, had done him no favors. He tossed the pillow onto the carpet and, bracing against the chair, lowered himself down gingerly between Finch's knees.

“No pressure. If it's too much, let me know.”

“The mind is willing, Mr. Reese, but the body...” The rest went unspoken as Harold slumped back in the chair and swept his hand over his lap.

“Even a brain as big as yours needs help every now and again,” John said. He moved his hands down to Finch's oxfords. The brown, seamless leather was smooth against his palms as he caressed over it to the trouser cuffs. Brushing his cheek against Finch's knee, he continued upward: his hands cupping Finch's calves through the wool, tracing the straps of his sock garters over his knees and around to his outer thighs. John cast a glance upward. Finch was watching him with curious eyes and he held Finch's gaze as he crawled closer in the tight space.

Where Finch's calves were sturdy and well muscled from years of uneven wear, his thighs were soft from those same years spent sitting at a desk. John dug his fingers in. He dipped his hands inward and pushed a slow path along the rippled inseam. Above him, Finch groaned as John's long fingers inched forward until they encircled his soft cock.

Usually, after the pain pills or the muscle relaxers kicked in, John complied with Harold's muttered, _Not tonight_. Sometimes he asked John to bring himself off and, cushioned against the pillows in whichever safe house they landed for the night, John was content to oblige and Harold was content to watch. Sometimes they just slept. Tucked in close, John would wrap his long arms over Harold and cup him softly through his night clothes.

But this wasn't Finch in his soft pajamas, gently dozing while John took liberties. This was the brilliant do-gooder in his fancy wardrobe. His light blue shirt was somehow still crisp. The collars perfectly placed to frame the orange Windsor knot. Shirt and tie disappeared under the periwinkle waistcoat and John lifted a hand to finger the undone button at the bottom.

It wasn't that he didn't pay attention, Finch was his favorite eye candy, it was that John rarely got the opportunity to study “The Wardrobe” up close and at length. Opportunities to study the details like the button in his hand: solid, primarily dark gray with irregular bands of honey brown dappled over the face.

“Corno di bufalo,” Harold whispered.

John tipped his head in question and Harold darted his tongue over his lips before continuing. “Horn. Hand cut, tooled, and finished.”

“It's rough,” John said, grazing his fingertip over the edge.

“The imperfection of nature.”

“Are all your buttons made out of buffalo horn?” John asked, brushing his hand back and forth over Finch's cockand feeling it bounce under his touch.

“Some,” Harold answered in a tremulous voice. He gripped the armrest. “Wood, mother-of-pearl, those are nice too.”

“And these?” John slipped his fingers inside the folded trouser fly flap and ran them along the five small buttons underneath.

“The same,” Harold squeaked. “Functional, attractive, but hidden for the most part.”

John brushed the fold back to reveal the placket underneath and pressed his lips to the buttons one at a time. “I see them.”

Harold gulped. John smiled. He brought both hands together and carefully threaded the top button through its hole. “Are you doing alright?” he asked, peeling the waistband back.

“Mmhmm.”

John lifted his head. Above him, Finch, the tip of his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth, reclined deep in the chair with his shoulders relaxed and his head cushioned against the high backrest. Pleased, he went back to the trousers, popping the little buttons open one by one. He fanned the two edges open and his smile widened.

Under the solid trussing of wool and horn, Finch was a surprisingly impressive show-er.

John rolled back onto his heels to observe his handiwork so far. Finch, his tie slightly askew now, legs planted wide, the dark fabric of his pants spread open to reveal his hefty bulge silhouetted beneath soft cotton boxer briefs.

“More buttons,” John rasped.

John walked his fingers along the light blue trimming and caught one of the smooth white buttons between his fingers. “Not horn?”

“Corozo nut,” Harold said, shifting in the chair. “I appreciate detail, Mr. Reese.”

“Then I will try to do you proud.” John draped his hands over Finch's plump thighs and eased himself back between his legs. He nuzzled against the warm mound first, then, starting low at his balls, kissed an outline around Finch's cocooned junk. Ignoring the buttons for the moment, John brushed his lips along the cotton weave.

“Oh, yes,” Finch sighed as he sank lower in the chair.

John notched his thumbs under Harold's balls then turned his attention to the two delicate buttons: the final barrier between him and his objective. Eyes up on Finch, John drew his upper lip back and caught the underside of the placket in his teeth. He tugged. He used his tongue to help push the button through the hole. It took five seconds to undo the first button. John had his technique down by the second and two, cotton soaking seconds later, he was rewarded with the sight of Finch's fat cock falling free.

“Bravo, Mr. Reese!” Finch swept a hand over John's head and down against his cheek. “You _are_ persistent, among other things.”

“Some things are worth the extra effort,” John said as he cradled the object of his affection in his hand. Finch was intact. A good six inches or more soft. The kind of thing a man stopped bragging about once he got out of his teens. The kind of thing that might draw attention if one looked closely and John was well trained in close observation. He cupped a hand at the base of the shaft and slowly stretched the foreskin up to cover Finch's cock head.Finch dug his fingers into John's shoulder.

Foreskins were unfashionable for a male born during the 50s, which told John a lot about Finch's father. He had one, for starters. A woman, left to make the decision on her own, would most likely have caved to medical advise. John's mother had.

Dragging his tongue over the trail of pulsing veins, John went a step further and guessed Finch had not been born in a big city. That matched with the neutral accent and occasionally rounded vowels. The precise diction was all Finch, but underneath that was rich, flat farmland. He imagined Finch's father working that land, holding out while, post war, comfortable suburbs and factories were flourishing all across the country. The man was stubborn, an independent thinker. Traits he'd passed on to his son, along with the foreskin.

“Thank you, Mr. Finch,” John murmured just before pressing his open lips to Finch's cock. With it notched between his relaxed lips and his tongue curved along the shaft, John mapped the unusual terrain, much as Finch had mapped him. Enveloped in the rich, heady scent of their combined arousal, he stretched and released the thin sheath.

“Slow,” Finch breathed, stroking his hands over John's bare shoulders as John moved his wet mouth and tongue along the sensitive skin.

John's own cock stirred to life as he traced his mouth over Finch's body and slowly made his way up to the head. Technique, not loud and showy vigor, was the key to Finch's map. The extra skin, doubled over to form a nerve-rich and supple layering of skin over skin —and with John's wet mouth dragging over him on each lazy pull— more skin, and wet heat.

Rounded vowels and raspy, inarticulate groans filled John's ears. Finch held one hand curved against his neck, his strong thumb circling at the base of John's skull. His other hand was cupped over John's shoulders, squeezing in time to the slow stretch. Finch wasn't quite soft anymore, but not yet fully erect. He didn't need to be hard to come. From experience John knew the easy, sensuous glide of skin over skin could be enough.

John lightly pinched his foreskin closed over the head and focused his attentions. With his tongue planted against the underside of Finch's cock, he opened his mouth and craned up to take Finch inside.

John groaned against the throb of the fat, skin sheathed head. He pushed his hands from the warm wool of Finch's ass up under the silk backing of his waistcoat, anchoring himself against the always too tight muscles at Finch's lower back. His hands warming through Finch's blue shirt while he swirled his wet mouth around the tip of Finch's cock.

Saliva, thick and slick rolled down the shaft, giving John more slip as he stretched the skin back until his hand rested over Finch's heavy balls. In his mouth, his tongue played gently over the exposed and meaty cock head. He could taste the clear of Finch's pre-come. Then, he reversed his hand, pushing the foreskin up, drawing Finch's balls upward, sheathing his tongue together with the tip of Finch's cock in his mouth.

John tongue fucked him. He rolled his way under the skin and around the ridged head. Closed his lips around the thin skin and suckled and tugged.

Finch pushed the fingers of both hands through John's hair, decorum thrown out the window as he cried out, _Yes, John._ Mind and body fully engaged now and John's name, _yes_ , on his lips.

John was hard. He tasted the subtle shift in Finch's release and he pulled off. Direct stimulation would be too much. Replacing his wet lips with sure fingers, John held the foreskin closed over Finch's glans and watched in amazement as it slowly ballooned with come. With his thumb and forefinger, John eased the skin back, releasing the thick puddle of creamy, hot slick.

John was like a kid in a candy store. Finch was still spilling and John pushed the skin back to create a wet well of come, then down again, releasing the messy, sweet seed back over his cock. He tugged Finch's shirt loose and wormed his hands under the wrinkled cotton as he lowered his head in order to honor his promise. Starting at the damp, slicked short hairs of his balls, John lapped Finch clean. He caught the thick, slow rolling rivulets of come against his tongue. Dipping and licking his way around the solid girth, moving slowly towards the top.

No swirls or tongue, just his hot, come filled mouth over Finch's tip. John held him there for a long while. His nostrils flared, he breathed in the sharp scent of them while Finch continued filling his mouth.

When Finch finally signaled that it was too much, a gentle tug against his hair, John pulled off. Head tipped up, his come filled mouth open, he held Finch's eyes as he swallowed it all down.

Finch had yet to recover his words. Instead he brought his fingers down to John's lips to catch and feed the stray droplets back into his mouth. John closed his lips over Finch's fingers, pushing his tongue between them to swirl over the fleshy pads. Then the warm, wet fingers outlining his lips again.

John's internal clock had stopped ages ago. He angled himself between Finch's legs and dropped his head to his thigh, face turned up to watch him.

“Preparations be damned,” Finch murmured, tracing his damp fingertips over John's eyebrow and down his nose. “I should just give you what you need.”

“Want,” John groaned. He tightened his arm around Finch. “You already give me everything that I need.”

They sat together quietly for a while until, with his erection subsided and knees aching, John reluctantly pushed himself up. Finch's fancy, buttoned boxers, the fly gaped obscenely wide, had taken the brunt of the damage. Gently, John tucked Finch back inside. He redid the buttons. True to his word, he hadn't spilled a drop onto the bespoke trousers. Finch's wrinkled shirt and askance waistcoat told their own story. Piece by piece, John buttoned and tucked, straitened and smoothed.

“There,” he said, sweeping one finger over Finch's parted lips, down over his cleft chin, down to dimple the slightly crooked Windsor knot. “You're ready to get back to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [tumblr at superjinkyo](http://superjinkyo.tumblr.com/), for WIP Wednesdays and other fan creations.


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